


glitter in her eyes

by Sayarling



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Mistaken Relationship, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sayarling/pseuds/Sayarling
Summary: They’re not married. Everyone just thinks they are.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	glitter in her eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A lil drabble compilation that eventually became a ~thing~. Enjoy!

The first time it happens, Roy doesn’t realize what he’s done. Riza’s back is turned while he inspects a handsome selection of peppers and she haggles with the fishmonger over his overpriced salmon. He’d run into her in town while she was starting her weekend errands. One mention of stopping at the market and here they were, together. Roy realizes belatedly that she hadn’t asked for company.

Her voice cuts through the market air. The fishmonger throws his hands in the air and acquiesces to her offer. Roy chuckles, glancing over his shoulder at her fondly. It wasn’t much use arguing with her.

“Your wife’s got fire,” says the shopkeeper to the Flame Alchemist.

“Indeed, she does,” Roy agrees, and dips his head in parting. Riza turns to him with a satisfied quirk on her lips, and the words hit him all of a sudden. _Your wife's got fire_. It made him feel warm.

“Shall we?” she says. Roy nods. The crowds have thickened and his hand on the small of her back guides her through the hubbub. He wonders if the pinking of her cheeks has anything to do with the hot morning sun. 

\--

The next time it happens, they’re undercover playing a couple. She’s on his arm posing as the demure and obedient missus as they sweep into the gala, an arresting sight together: him tall and dashing in a three-piece suit, his signature scarf draped around his shoulders, and her elegant in a jewel-tone gown and hair swept into a neat chignon. She spots their target before he does and cranes up to whisper in his ear. Her rouged lips brush the lobe and he can’t help but shiver. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs and thumbs his ear to wipe off the smear of lipstick. He has a witty retort on his tongue, but their contact has found them and has called Roy’s code name across the room. 

“Mr. Kile, what a delight!” says Mr. Tupp. “Ah, and this must be the young lady I’ve heard so much about. Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.”

“The honor is all mine,” Riza says in her delicate, windchime voice, the one they’d picked just for this mission. They’d practiced for hours over the phone at Roy’s insistence. Mr. Tupp settles into a coded conversation with Roy while Riza slips away from his side to work the room under the guise of getting them drinks. Havoc is having far too much fun pouring drinks behind the bar. 

When she returns with their scotch, she fits into the void she’d left with ease, and Mr. Tupp is still talking. 

“Would you mind terribly if I borrowed my husband?” Riza purrs, slipping his glass seamlessly into his hand. Roy nearly chokes at how easily it’s left her lips. 

“Not at all, Mrs. Kile. I must make the rounds myself. And may I say, you make quite the couple!” Mr. Tupp winks at them and departs. Riza appears unruffled as ever, but Roy can see the grin she’s fighting. 

“Quite the couple, huh?” he teases. “We must look very much in love.”

She pinches the skin above his elbow, a silent reprimand. People are listening. 

“Well, we are, darling,” she agrees through her low, honeyed croon, though her imperceptible tone carries a warning. “Come. There’s someone we must see.”

He decides he likes the word “husband” when it comes from her lips.

\--

They’re out for Friday night drinks with the unit, and a young man is pestering her by the bar.

“One dance,” he badgers. “C’mon, blondie, I don’t bite.”

“Sure you don’t,” she drawls. She’s got it under control - always does - but that doesn’t stop Roy from sauntering towards the bar and clearing his throat loudly as this presumptuous hotshot leans in just a bit too close.

“Oh, I just love this song,” Roy cuts in smoothly, and the kid glares at him with a sour frown. He drops an arm around Riza and regards her with his smarmiest smile. “Don’t you remember, sweetheart? We danced to this at our wedding. Do me the honor again, won’t you?”

Riza doesn’t argue as he pulls her to the dance floor and tucks her snugly into his arms, so natural and swift it's like they'd been doing it for years. They’re surrounded by at least a dozen other couples, and he isn’t particularly worried if anyone sees them.

“He’s gone, you know,” she says, resting her chin against his shoulder as they sway. His hand is searing, splayed across her lower back.

“I do,” Roy replies, his voice slightly muffled by her hair. He shouldn't, but he indulges a little for what he tells himself is a good show and nuzzles her temple. His lips graze the tips of her ears, and she can feel his voice rumbling low in his chest. “Still wouldn’t hurt to play along. To be sure.”

She tightens her arms around him and marvels at the way his warmth just envelopes her. In his arms like this, it feels like home - and they might as well be alone for all they care of their company.

“I suppose not," she muses. She hides a smile in his chest. Suddenly, he stiffens.

"Come home with me," he blurts out, and in that instant, the bubble has popped. They're the only couple frozen on the dance floor, and he's looking at her with eyes so bright and alive she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't want to say no. But she can't say yes.

"I mean--" he sputters, glancing around frantically. He clears his throat. "Well, that would be silly. Coming home with me, when we're, erm, married. Of course, you're coming with me."

"I think our bluff's been called," Riza says pragmatically and taps his hand. "No rings."

"We wear ours under our clothes," Roy asserts as if he's had a lot of time to think this through. And he probably has, and as it dawns on her she blinks owlishly at him. She waits for him to try to explain himself out of that one, but he doesn't.

\--

Roy doesn’t know when to turn off the charm. Or, maybe he does and doesn’t feel a lick of guilt using it to get his way. Riza is sure it’s the latter as he schmoozes the young lady at the coffee shop into adding a croissant to their order. On the house, of course. 

“They’re my wife’s favorite,” he panders, flashing that smile that reeks of a scam-in-progress. “I’m a sucker, you know? I can’t deny her anything.”

“Oh, how darling!” the barista cooes and winks at Riza. “You’d better watch him closely, Miss, or someone’s going to try to steal him away from you! What a lucky woman!”

“That would be a fool’s errand,” Roy says, his charisma distracts from Riza’s surprised bark of laughter. He graciously accepts the bagged treat and passes it to Riza, who doesn’t quite know how to respond.

“Besides,” says that silver-tongued devil and his eyes linger on her so fondly her knees tremble. “I’m the lucky one, many times over.”

Riza is positively puce as they leave the shop, the girl’s laughter tinkling behind them. 

“Why do you do that?” she snaps, clutching her coffee tightly despite the heat of it burning her fingers. Anything to avoid the heat pooling elsewhere.

“Everyone is a sucker for a doting husband,” Roy says simply. “You should thank me, Captain. I did promise you breakfast. And they are your favorite, aren’t they?”

“You’re not my husband,” Riza huffs, which makes Roy’s eyes gleam with mischief. “And if you want a wife to embarrass so badly, why don’t you go out and find one?”

It’s Roy’s turn to flush, and she finds herself watching him curiously as he becomes suddenly shy. “Perhaps I’ll do just that.”

\--

“Hello, Captain Hawkeye. I’m with the Central Medical Center. I understand you’re the next of kin for one General Roy Mustang?”

So goes Riza’s day off. He’s been in a small automobile accident and is thoroughly basking in the attention of all the pretty nurses when she arrives, her concern for his well-being only overshadowed by annoyance over his recklessness.

“There’s the woman of the hour,” says one of the older nurses, rolling her eyes in Roy’s direction. “He’s been talking nonstop about you since he came in.”

“So he has a concussion, then?” Riza asks honestly, but the nurses squawk like she just told the funniest joke.

“Sprained wrist and some scrapes and bruises. He’ll be just fine. We gave him a little something for the pain.”

That little something has Roy positively loopy, and he nearly falls out of his bed in elation when she walks in. 

“Light of my life!” he exclaims. He leans over to a young nurse who is scratching his vitals on her clipboard and stage whispers to her, “She’s the one I was telling you about.”

“He’s been the entertainment of the day, the ham,” she says to Riza with a wry smile.

“He’s always got to be the center of attention,” Riza replies. Despite her frustrations with him, her heart can’t help but melt a little at the dopey smile he’s giving her, like she is the light of his life. And the moon and stars, too.

“As long as I’m the center of yours,” he says. “Are we going home now?”

“Yes, you are,” the nurse says, and she has both of them sign his discharge papers. Riza isn’t even particularly surprised when she glimpses the nurse’s notes indicating that Mr. Mustang's wife has come to pick him up. 

His car is in the parking lot and runs fine with just a small dent, to the point where she isn’t unconvinced he pulled this stunt just to cause a little chaos. Their drive to his apartment complex is quiet but comfortable. He’s slumped in the front seat with his head back, but every time the car jostles he inches mysteriously closer to her across the bench seat.

She dutifully ignores him until it’s no longer humanly possible. His fingers slide through the ends of her unbound hair, soft and fine between his digits while he mutters nonsense to himself. She can't quite make everything out but one refrain sounds like "Long live the Queen."

“Sir,” she warns sharply, and he yanks his hand away as if he’d been slapped. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him sulking as he slides further down in his seat. 

But he’s not deterred for long, letting out an exaggerated sigh that he must mean to sound long-suffering. 

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” he sings out. “Why do you torment me so?”

Riza blinks slowly, hoping he’ll just end this. But part of her doesn’t mind.

“Imagine my plight and pity me,” he continues his lament, flinging an arm over his face and sounding like an old order Amestrian poet. “A man of my station and reputation, alone. Won’t you end my suffering? How my heart burns for you, my loins--”

Riza takes the turn into his building’s parking lot sharper than intended, and Roy flies to the other side of the car and bounces off of the door. He yelps as he lands on his injured wrist.

\--

It’s a snowy winter night, quiet and still, and they’re still at work. She’s got her head bent over her desk, diligently writing out a report, while Roy watches her from his inner office. He rests his cheek on his fist, his eyes following the motion of her hands as she scrawls, the crinkle of her eyebrows, the huff she makes as she puffs her bangs out of her eyes. 

“Captain, I think it’s about time to call it a night, don’t you?”

She blinks up at him, her eyes bleary. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “This can wait until morning.” 

She’s barely taken a break today, he knows. They’ve been disarmingly busy, and she’s taken it all his with her trademark work ethic. Her takeout sits half untouched at the corner of her desk. 

Roy stands and stretches. He comes to lean on the threshold to his private office and jerks his head toward the interior. 

“Join me for a moment before you leave, won’t you?”

She finishes organizing her things and does just that, settling in at his side as he leans against his desk, in front of the large bay windows that face the courtyard and the hub of Central City. The snow is falling in fat, slow-moving flakes now, cushioning the urbania so gently that they can barely hear the hum of traffic anymore. Most people are home now anyway, settled in for the snowstorm. Roy finds himself suddenly wistful.

He allows himself an indulgence that isn't so rare anymore; he imagines what it would be like to be tucked away with Riza at home during a snowstorm just like this one. He's envious of couples who get to do this, go home to one another. He pictures them curled up under a thick quilt together. The lights are off but the fireplace bathes them in a hazy glow. They watch the snowfall and doze on each other, content and safe and alive and in love and--

“It’s beautiful,” Riza says softly beside him, wrenching him out of his daydream just before it takes in the inevitable turn into self-pity. Their shoulders are nearly touching, and he desperately wants to hold her hand. He flexes his fingers helplessly, the tingling sensation in their wake making him nervous.

“Very,” he murmurs.

They’re silent for a very long few minutes that in hindsight, don’t feel long at all. Roy has come to find over the years that time spent in Riza’s presence is never long enough, and he finds it almost unbearable to think of returning to his empty apartment, alone, when he’s spent the past many hours with her feeling so alive. He takes a breath to speak, but her quiet, raspy voice comes first. 

“My mother used to tell me that during the first snow of the year, the world was being reborn. Pure and clean,” she says. Roy glances to look down at her; she fiddles with her fingers. “She told me that the first snow washed away sins, and we could be anything. Anything we wanted.”

“That sounds nice,” Roy says, a wave of fondness rolling over him. She looks suddenly young and childlike, reminiscing about her mother. Sad. Like the little girl he once knew. 

“What would you be?” she asked. He paused, not sure if she was being rhetorical. But a flit of her eyes toward him told her she wanted to know, and he swallowed before answering. 

“Yours,” he said finally, turning to meet her eyes. “I’d be yours.”

The snow patters harder against the windows, an errant breeze bending the walls to creak. The General and his Captain stare at each other, and finally, the General coaxes, “And you?”

She lifts her hands to smooth out matching wrinkles on his shoulders. He lowers his head and gently rests his forehead against hers. They make a pretty silhouette, just the two of them. In a quiet voice, so soft he nearly misses it she whispers back, “I’d be yours."

Hearing those words in her warm, honeyed voice makes his heart flutter in his chest like butterfly’s wings against glass. Withdrawing just so, he reaches into his shirt collar to pull a chain laden with dog tags from around his neck. Without ceremony, without hesitation, he presses them into her hand, folding her fingers around them.

“To be clear,” he murmurs. “If not for the law...”

“I know,” she says, and folds her free hand over his. “I know.”

She lifts his dog tags and presses her lips to their smooth, engraved surface, warmed from his skin. With a nimble hand, she extracts her own dog tags from around her neck and replaces them with his. She drapes her chain over his bowed head and presses her hand to where her name hangs proudly on her chest. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “Always.”

She smiles at him, her heart full and true. And when she tells him she loves him, he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful, like there’s glitter in her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
